


Voyeur

by Joodiff



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, F/M, Office Sex, Other, PWP, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:13:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You unexpectedly return to headquarters late at night...</p>
<p>
  <i>Adult content - don't like, don't read. Enjoy!</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voyeur

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

* * *

 

**Voyeur**

by Joodiff

* * *

 

You are understandably irritable as you hurry into the gloomy squad room to collect the file you inexplicably left behind earlier. It’s Friday night and you were very tempted not to bother coming back here before finally going home, but you have a little work to do over the weekend and you need that damned file, so here you are. It’s unusually late and you’re somewhat surprised to see that there’s a light on in Boyd’s office. You’re well aware that he often works stupidly long hours, as befits his position as head of the unit, but even so, you really didn’t expect anyone to still be here. You didn’t notice his car outside in the car park, and though it might simply be parked on the far side of the building as it sometimes is, you think it’s more likely that he has simply gone home having failed to turn off the reading lamp on his desk when he extinguished all the other lights. It’s not your job to rectify his mistakes, but you automatically walk towards his closed door. On the way, you become a little disorientated in the dense shadows and you catch your knee on the edge of a chair that one of your colleagues has thoughtlessly left untidily abandoned. The sharp impact smarts and you curse to yourself and belatedly wish you’d bothered to switch on the harsh overhead lights when you first arrived.

You momentarily hesitate as you think you hear a noise from within Boyd’s office. Perhaps he _is_ working late, after all. With a slight shrug you decide to go ahead and investigate. If you are wrong, you will just turn off the forgotten lamp and leave. If you are right, you will just exchange a few brief words with him before departing. He has a well-earned reputation for blunt impatience and you know only too well that he can often be curt and boorish, but he can be perfectly congenial, too. Even intentionally amusing when the mood takes him. You would never admit it to anyone, but sometimes his dark, sharp sense of humour makes you chuckle quietly to yourself. You take the final few steps towards his door, not really bothered if he is present or not. The horizontal privacy blinds are not fully closed, but they are set at a deliberate angle that prevents casual surveillance from the squad room and accordingly you can’t look into his office until the very last moment.

You see Boyd first – understandable since he is standing in the middle of the room with his back to the door – but you immediately see his companion, too. You instantly freeze, not because of her identity, but because they are not standing a discreet distance apart having a professional discussion as you might have expected. They are embracing, and definitely not in the harmless, affectionate way of old friends. They are embracing and they are kissing, their hands roaming slowly but without restraint as they do so. You are astounded by what you see, and you feel a hot flush of awkward embarrassment rising inexorably in your cheeks. The rumours have been rife for as long as you can remember, but as far as you are aware there has never been a shred of firm evidence to give them any real credence. Until now. You realise you are staring, but then you find that you quite literally cannot move. You can’t even close your eyes. It’s far too hypnotic, the almost unbelievable scene on the other side of the glazed door.

Doubtless, you should turn and walk away as quickly and quietly as you can, but you don’t. Something very strong and very elemental has ruthlessly taken hold of you and it is holding you mercilessly pinned to the spot. There is guilty pleasure in your startling discovery, a darkly voyeuristic joy. You know it’s wrong to watch such an intimate moment as it unfolds, but you simply can’t help it. You are human and you are weak, and your mind and body are reacting automatically to the visual and emotional stimuli of what you are witnessing. You are mortified and you are unexpectedly aroused, and you just can’t look away. Even the frightening thought of what will happen if – _when_ – they finally notice you doesn’t break the terrible, wonderful spell that has tightly woven its way around you and through you. It’s partly the way they are with each other that holds you in a strange rapture. Passionate, artless, familiar.

They are not young, either of them, but at that moment and in their own way they are extraordinarily beautiful. You realise that on a very profound, instinctive level and the unusual thought genuinely astounds you. You have never previously thought about such a thing. They are just your colleagues, both of them senior to you in age and rank and experience, and it has never really struck you before that they are attractive people. Now, you find yourself wondering why the fact has always escaped your attention and whether it is simply the way they seem to so perfectly complement each other that confers a strange, transitory beauty on them both.

They break apart and you automatically take a silent, defensive step backwards. Just a single step. Whatever Boyd says makes Grace laugh softly. You can see the way her eyes shine as she looks at him and you immediately know that for all their sniping and bickering there is something between them that far transcends all the everyday annoyances and petty grievances. You wonder how long things have been this way between them in private, secret moments. Weeks? Months? Years, even?

Boyd lowers his head to kiss her again and you are amazed by how gentle he is, how tender. You would never have believed him capable of it. You are fully aware that you _cannot_ continue to watch them, but despite every thought and instinct that screams at you, you still can’t seem to force yourself to turn away. You know that you are grossly invading their privacy and that you are now doing it quite intentionally. And yet you can’t stop staring at them even when his hand moves slowly and inevitably to her breast. Your breathing has quickened slightly, and as soon as you notice you despise yourself for it. But you don’t move. _Can’t_ move.

Grace opens her eyes and your heart lurches hard in your chest as for a split-second you think she’s staring straight at you. Then you realise that either the shadows surrounding you or the reflections on the glass between you are your wicked allies, artfully concealing your shameful presence. You swallow and discover that your throat is dry. Now you really _are_ a deliberate voyeur. You are both deeply ashamed and wildly excited, and as they turn slightly granting you an even better view, part of you knows you will _never_ be able to forgive yourself for not finding the strength and decency to turn away and leave. You are mesmerised; everything in you that is primal and bestial is thoroughly engaged by the way they touch and stroke and kiss. You almost moan aloud when you see the delicate but infinitely sensual way her tongue slowly maps the area of exposed skin beneath Boyd’s throat. It’s too much for you – and it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.

You _can’t_ watch them as they do this, but you do. And you _will_. You are aching, almost shivering, and though your stomach is roiling in nauseous humiliation, as they kiss and she drops her hand and deliberately rubs her palm against the clearly visible evidence of acute male arousal you are fighting the compelling, terrifying urge to allow your own hands to start to roam. You wonder what carnal thoughts and sensations are rushing through them both. You wonder whether Grace likes the way he softly bites her neck; whether Boyd would cheerfully sell his soul for more than the deft touch of her hand. You start to imagine how it must feel for them as their hunger and impatience really start to show, and you immediately have to choke down a low groan of despair and frustration.

They are your friends, your _co-workers_. You spend more of your waking hours with them and your other colleagues than you do with anyone else in your life. Differences of opinion notwithstanding, you like them, respect them, and the longer you remain stationary the more the harsh, limitless contempt you have for yourself and your weakness feels like bile rising acidly in your throat – and _still_ you are unable to break yourself free from the malevolent enchantment holding you utterly spellbound. You try to tell yourself that none of this is your fault, that even if they have every reason to imagine they are alone they should not be behaving in such a way in a semi-public place, but it’s a vain attempt at self-justification. You should have walked away when you first saw them and you didn’t.

Part of you is hoping that they will suddenly come to their senses and unwittingly end your purgatory; that sense and propriety will prevail and they will decide to leave and continue their encounter in a far more fitting location. Part of you doesn’t want that at all. Part of you, the greedy, lascivious part of you that lives in the dark depths a long way beneath accountability, respectability and decency, wants to travel down every last yard of the blazing erotic road with them. It is that part of you that makes your fists automatically clench and your nails bite hard into your palms as clothes are unfastened before your hungry gaze. You can clearly see how pale and fine her skin is, how broad his shoulders are. You see Boyd’s silver-haired head drop low and you see the enraptured look on her face as he suckles at her breast, the big man suddenly completely enslaved by everything she is, everything she ever has been or ever could be.

You can feel imaginary hands traversing your body. Lustful, experienced hands. You want to be on the other side of the glass, want to merge seamlessly into the sensual ancient dance with them. You want to touch, to _be_ touched. You want to feel what they feel – the living warmth of flesh, the solid toughness of bone; the softness of delicate skin. You want to share with them the exhilarating scent and taste of the moment. Heaven help you, you desperately want to be far, far more than a passive, illicit observer. The sickening sense of shame has left you. There is no room for it in the suffocating heat of the intense arousal that has you in its grasp. Later you may very well burn with guilt and remorse, but not now; not as you shiver in the dark despite the animal heat that is radiating from you.

Boyd lifts her onto the edge of his desk. You watch the way the muscles move under the smooth skin of his back as the shadows sculpt him into both more and less than he really is. You doubt Grace weighs very much, but even so, the manoeuvre seems to cost him no effort. You can see her expression very clearly, and it is sharp and needy, all her attention focused entirely on him. You doubt that she knows or cares about anything beyond Peter Boyd and the few inches of superheated air around them. You think that he is as lost as she is, his gaze every bit as covetous, and you find yourself envying the strength and depth of the connection that obviously exists between them. Bitterly envying it.

You have been forced to watch enough cheap, tasteless pornography in the course of your career with law enforcement to have unwisely imagined that you have become completely desensitised to all the visual cues that are supposed to send vibrant carnal messages chasing along your nerve-endings. You are rapidly discovering that you are wrong, that you are not desensitised at all. In another reality you would dare to fling open the door in front of you and plunge into the room and into the searing heat of their lust, not caring what role you played in the erotic drama. In another reality you would touch and tongue and tease, and beg to take or be taken. Not in _this_ reality. Not in the reality where you are no more than a hidden voyeur guiltily concealed in the shadows.

It is a shock to realise just how foolish and arrogant your perceptions about them have always been. The knowledge comes to you brutally and painfully as Grace unbuckles his belt, frees him from tight confinement and grasps him eagerly and knowledgeably. Your half-recognised delusions about them shatter like glass in the face of his raw potency and her shameless expertise. You realise instantly that everything you have ever understood about either of them is nothing more than a shallow personal view of one tiny fragment of who and what they really are. The police officer and patriarch; the psychologist and matriarch. Neither flimsy snapshot can bear even a fraction of the weight of the feral sensuality you are witnessing in them both. They are not staid or inhibited – they are _glorious_ in their combined lust, and your own body seems to tremble in time with each impatient thrust Boyd makes into the small hands that grip him hard.

There is awe in the way you watch them now, and when they scuffle irritably with the very last pieces of clothing impeding them, you are heady with need and excitement. You catch a glimpse of Boyd’s rearing shaft as he moves into position to take her and a powerful shockwave slams straight down your spine. It’s followed by another, just as powerful, as you see, just for a heartbeat, the soft secret place between her thighs that awaits him. He moves again and the moment is lost, but before you can moan in frustration you see his hips move and the way her body instantly answers him, her spine arching and her fingers digging hard into his bare flanks. He is deep inside her, and half-crazy with arousal yourself you think you know exactly how it feels – for both of them. Now you really _are_ shaking, and it’s possible that your fingernails are now actually drawing blood from your palms.

You want, more than anything, to be a part of it. You want to be _him_ ; you want to be _her_ ; it doesn’t matter to you. You just want to share the incredible sensations that you know they are experiencing. Boyd’s hips buck hard and this time you do moan – but quietly, almost inaudibly. You see her head strain back in answer and you are astonished by just how young and wild she looks. In Grace’s expression you begin to comprehend things you have never even begun to consider before. You can read things there that you would never have believed before tonight, and though it is Boyd who is thrusting aggressively, you know that she is in no way submissive to him or his insolent male strength.

It is the best and worst thing you have ever seen. It’s wonderful and base and shocking, and you simultaneously love and hate them both for it. You ache and you shiver and you pray that it will soon be over because you don’t think you can endure it for much longer, but when Grace starts to buck frantically against him you are oddly disappointed. You hear her suddenly give voice to the impossible joy of it and that’s almost too much for you. You are reaching sensory overload, the point where something in you _must_ give way. You will either break and touch yourself in hot, twisting need, or you will abruptly flee and let the guilt and the shame entirely consume you. Then Boyd’s hips start to jerk unevenly and his shoulders start to heave and you know he is coming deep inside her, staking his claim to her in the most primitive, elemental way possible.

It takes a few heartbeats, but reality bites into you with savage force. Beyond the glass, Boyd and Grace are locked together in silent post-coital bliss, the frantic need burned out of them and replaced by an incredible tenderness, and as you see it you begin to realise the true extent of your selfish madness. You realise that you have utterly betrayed them; betrayed their friendship, their trust, their belief in you. Betrayed them in the most sordid and craven way possible. Your blood seems to be relentlessly turning to ice in your veins whilst your previous arousal has been instantly and completely excised from every part of your treacherous flesh. You are now so far past embarrassment and humiliation and so full of clarity and self-loathing that for a moment the sudden rise of nausea literally swamps you and you sway precariously off-balance.

The way they are looking at each other shames you. Stripped of lust, it is only love that remains and when you see it you vow that you will bury this entire evening so deep and so far inside you that no-one will ever find it or be able to use it against either of them. It is the only apology you can make to them, the only restitution you dare give them for your treachery. You will never speak of this; you will never even allow yourself to think of it.

Hating yourself, you sneak furtively away even before they properly draw apart, the truth of your guilt clearly visible in the livid crescent moons marking your palms and in the lost, penitent look in your eyes. Maybe they hear you go. You will never know. You will not sleep well tonight, and on Monday you will face both of them at the usual morning meeting and you will fidget restlessly as you wonder if they know there is a contemptible voyeur amongst the small team of people seated around the table…

_\- the end -_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be a Christmas story. Something went very wrong! ;)  
> Happy Christmas, 2013!


End file.
